Between the Shadow and the Soul
by Rusty Halos
Summary: When they were wearing masks, it was safe. He was the big damn hero, and she was the manipulative, clever thief. But once their own faces are all that's left, those roles blur together in a dangerous game of love and lust that spans cities, continents, and the biggest distance of all...the one between truth and acceptance. Bruce and Selina, in the after. M for language/carnality.
1. The Calm Before

**Between the Shadow and the Soul**

Disclaimer: Don't own anything – Rating: T, soon M – Warnings: Strong language, carnality

* * *

_I do not love you as if you were a salt rose, or topaz_

_Or the arrow of carnations the fire shoots off._

_I love you as certain dark things are to be loved,_

_In secret, between the shadow and the soul._

"Love Sonnet XVII," Neruda

* * *

**01. The Calm Before…**

* * *

The nighttime noises of Gotham's slums had always provided Selina Kyle with a sense of peace. It was an odd thing to find comforting, but the restless sounds of the Narrows after dark filled the air with a sense of frenetic desperation as familiar to her as her own rapid heartbeat. All the denizens of Gotham were on edge tonight, the manic high of surviving ebbing into the uncertainty of a tomorrow none had anticipated would ever come. The difference between the Narrows and the rest of Gotham, though, was that, to those in the Narrows, such uncertainty was not a new feeling—in fact, it was a daily occurrence. Ironically enough, this made the Narrows the calmest part of Gotham in…the aftermath.

Now Selina counted the exhalations of her breath by the sound of the sirens in the night outside her window, her bathroom light a muted orange on the backdrop of her closed eyelids. She leaned over her sink, gripping it with all her strength, resting her forehead against the cool glass of the bathroom mirror. The ceramic and glass were a balm to her raw skin, rubbed a deep, angry red in her futile attempt to cleanse herself of the day. Wrapped in an old towel and with her dark hair still dripping water down her back, she could feel the wind blowing in through the cracked window behind her, chill and sinister as it raised goose flesh.

Slowly, she blinked, and willed herself to take a look at her own reflection, stepping back a fraction to observe the ghostly pale visage in the glass. She thought, maybe, she might look different. Weren't you supposed to look different after surviving something like this? But no, her face, with its overlarge features and sharp bones, was the same as ever, with the exception of the dark smudges of exhaustion under her eyes and the gauntness of her cheeks.

Out of the corner of her eye, she saw a flicker of movement in the mirror's reflection.

_Buddy, you picked the wrong apartment_, she thought darkly to herself, muscles tensing instinctively. Maybe releasing some of her tension on this poor bastard would take her mind off things for a moment.

Just as she was about to attack, a voice in the darkness stopped her.

"It's only me."

Selina's eyes flew wide open and she froze, stuck staring at her own shocked expression in the glass. As she swallowed convulsively, she could see the pale skin of her throat move in the mirror. It was oddly entrancing, and she brought a hand up over the sight to steady herself.

Being a rather pragmatic woman, Selina was not a big believer in ghosts, but for once, she was second guessing herself. Trying to gauge her own mental stability, she concentrated clinically on what her senses had observed.

The voice he had chosen to use was not Bruce Wayne's, but it was not the Batman's either. It was gravelly and exhausted and undoubtedly _him_, but held neither the patina of cultured finesse nor stark, stern authority.

It struck her that perhaps, for once, he had not _chosen_ which voice to use, which guise to assume, but simply presented himself to her as he was.

_Watch yourself_, the pragmatic side of her said. _Don't assign meaning where there isn't any_.

That could get very dangerous very fast.

She _had_ to know why he was here…assuming he _was_ here.

"To what do I owe this pleasure?" she said, using every trick at her disposal to keep her own voice steady and velvety sleek as she turned slowly to face whatever was behind her in the harsh half-light of the dying overhead lamp.

She swallowed down her involuntary gasp.

It was him, alright, and he looked fucking horrible. Still in his cowl and armor but without his cape, he was covered in splotches of mud and God knows what else, and she could see a huge gash in his flesh where the suit had ripped apart on the side of his abdomen. His lips were tinged blue with cold, and he was shaking, a fine, bone-deep shaking that made his lips tense with effort and caused him to lean heavily against her broken window.

"Just thought I'd pop in," he managed, as she started forward instinctively, carefully helping him stand up straight with uncharacteristically gentle hands on his shoulders. "See how you were holding up. Knew you had a rough day and all."

"Rough day," she muttered under her breath, nimble fingers looking for some sort of release catch so that she could pry the suit off his body. "Right. Not as tough as yours, I'd imagine. I've heard dying can be hard on the digestion."

"You have no idea," he all but groaned, tough guy act dissolving into pieces as she accidentally brushed against his exposed wound.

"Sorry," she said softly, hands stilling in their nervous activity. "Want to tell me how to get you out of this?"

He gave a short, pained chuckle. "This is not how I imagined you undressing me for the first time."

"We can always have a do over if you let me get you out of the suit so you survive the night," she retorted, tamping down any surprised pleasure she felt at his statement.

"Here," he said, reaching down to cover her hands with his and guiding them to a small, hidden button. She pressed down, and the suit seemed to decompress with a small _whoosh_ of air. Slowly, trying hard not to jostle any injuries, she helped him sit against the tub and began stripping the armor off his torso, swallowing an automatic grimace at the state of his body as it was revealed to her.

He was magnificent, as she'd known he'd be, all lean muscle and hard, angular lines, but she didn't have the luxury of appreciating it all when his warm, dark blood began spilling out over her bare knees where she knelt by his side.

"Shit," she said, leaning down to get a closer look at it. "You're going to need plenty of stitches."

"Got a suture kit around here?" he asked.

Who did he think she was, an amateur? She shot him a patronizing look that was only mostly joking, and went to her medicine cupboard to retrieve the kit.

Carefully, with an experienced hand, she cleaned the wound and sewed it close with neat, small stitches. He watched her in silence, his breathing shallower and slower than she would have liked, and worry rose like bile in her gut.

"You need to get tests done," she said quietly. "You could have internal bleeding, a concussion…really, any number of things."

"I'm fine," he said, with a conviction that seemed rather ridiculous to her, considering what she'd just been doing. "It was just my side this time."

"Did I miss the part where you went to medical school?" she asked drily, fingers now looking for a way to get his cowl off. He looked rather demonic with just his chest bare, flesh shadowed with bruises and scars, and his legs and face still covered.

"I've been in this state often enough to know when something's seriously wrong," he said. "Here, let me."

He did something quickly with his hands behind both ears, then slipped the whole piece off in one smooth motion, looking up into her hovering face as soon as his head was free.

"Well, well, Mr. Wayne," she purred. "We meet again."

He smiled at her, just a small quirking of his lips, and then she was moving, pressing her own against the beautiful shape of his mouth, listening to her heart pounding its frenetic rhythm against her eardrums as it gloried in the sight of him.

They broke for air after a few moments, and his forehead dropped to rest against the bare, damp skin of her shoulder as she moved back into a crouch over his legs.

"You smell like cinnamon," he said absentmindedly, breath soft and intimate on her flesh.

"My shampoo," she said automatically, then, "Are you going to tell me what happened?"

She gave him the option of weaseling out of an answer; they owed each other nothing, and she certainly wasn't in the position to demand.

And yet, she was relieved when he said, "I fixed the autopilot. I didn't know if it was going to work until it did, so I didn't say anything, but I got out of the Bat in time. Once I reached shore, I had to stick to the shadows and go the long way round to make sure no one saw me coming here, to you."

She made a noncommittal sound in the back of her throat, but it was harder to control the softening of her expression when he cupped the back of her head and brought their lips together again.

Their kisses had been gentle, reassuring, a touch that soothed their restless minds and stilled them amidst the nervous energy that pervaded Gotham. Up until now, the carnality of the gesture had been nothing more than a murmur of electricity racing under their skin, but this kiss was something else. She demanded from him the solid heat of his chest against hers, the pressure of his hands holding her head in place, and he in turn asked from her the sharp pain of her nails digging into the flesh of his shoulders and the weight of her body resting on his thighs.

It was only when she noticed the clamminess of his skin that she guided herself away from him. His lips were swollen from the edge of her teeth, and his eyes were dark, liquid with lust; she wanted nothing more than to give in to the look he was giving her. But she could also see the beads of sweat on his forehead, the shivering that hadn't stopped since he'd arrived.

"You need to take a hot shower," she murmured, unable to keep her hand from brushing back the heavy dark hair that fell across his face. "You're going to catch your death."

He snorted, and said, "Twice in one day."

"Not funny," she replied, getting up with all the grace of a panther and slowly surveying him with a panther's languorous hunger. There was a certain, unquantifiable levity to him that there hadn't been before, despite his battered body and obvious exhaustion. It lingered around the edges of his mouth, in the fevered brightness of his pupils and the lines that crinkled beside them when he thought about laughing at her. It would be so easy, too easy, to get used to this Bruce Wayne.

"You look like you want to eat me," he said, and she could've sworn his eyes fucking _twinkled_ at her.

"Baby," she replied, moving the shower curtain aside and starting the water. "Don't tempt me."

* * *

"How're the stitches?" she asked, curled up at the foot of her bed and staring out her bedroom window at the neon bright harshness of nighttime in the Narrows.

"Fine," he said, and she could feel the dip of the bed behind her as he sat down. "I'm impressed, they look very professional. Should hardly leave a scar."

"Not that you care very much about scars," she said, trying not to let the strange, unexpected intimacy of his steady breathing in the darkness of her bedroom rile her too much.

"No, can't say that I do," he said, and she barely managed to suppress her gasp when one of his hands came to rest heavy on the dip of her side, fingers spreading over the skin of her ribs. "But I'm glad to avoid one right here. I think I've got enough reminders of the Batman."

_That_ made her sit up and turn to face him.

"Reminders?" she asked carefully, trying to divine his expression in the long shadows cast across her bedroom. "You mean to say you're…what…hanging up the cowl?"

"I've…had time to think about it," he said, his voice heavy with an emotion she couldn't quite discern. "I think it's time for…a clean slate."

"A clean slate," she repeated, quietly.

"Know anyone who might be able to help me out with that?" he asked, with half-hearted nonchalance.

"What will you do with your clean slate?" she asked, only half expecting an answer to such a question. He was quiet for a long moment.

"I think I'll go to Italy," he said slowly.

She raised one dark brow. "Italy. Why not France or Colombia or Myanmar?"

"I've always liked pasta," he said mildly.

She almost laughed, until he asked, "And what will you do with _your_ clean slate? You've been chasing it for so long now, you must have a plan."

"No," she said, surprised by her own honesty. She trailed her fingers along the coolness of her sheets. "Not so much a plan as a feeling. I think I'll go to Paris, at least for a little while."

"Let me guess," he said. "You've always liked baguettes."

She had to smile at that. "You're a funny guy for an eccentric, billionaire cripple who likes to dress up like a giant rodent."

"Yes, I'm quite delightful," he said. "For an _ex_-billionaire cripple who likes to dress up like a giant rodent."

"That's right," she said, "I forgot you'd gone broke. Though I'd bet the Picasso in my front hallway that you've got a nice emergency stash somewhere."

"I'm not taking that bet," he said. "But—listen—will you do me a favor?"

Her expression hardened, and her voice grew cautious. "That depends on the favor."

"Won't you tell me why you want to go to Paris?" he said gently, watching the emotions flit quickly across her face before she locked them down.

"I've got my own stash there," she said finally, truthfully. "And Paris is kind to wanderers."

"And who will you be, when you get there?"

"Are you asking me whether I've gone on the straight and narrow?" she said sharply, eyes blazing bright with irritation. "Whether you ought to alert Interpol to heighten security on the Mona Lisa?" Selina wasn't about to let anyone, even the Batman, dictate terms to her.

"No," he said hastily, noting danger. "I'm only asking how I might find you."

"That's pretty presumptuous of you," she said, more calmly.

"I'm eccentric, remember?"

"I haven't decided yet. Who I'm going to be, once I get to Paris."

"And when you've decided," he said, shifting closer to her on the bed, capitulating to the bone-deep, instinctive longing to graze the softness of her pulse with the pads of his fingers. "How will I find you?"

"What happened to Italy?" She was alert, watchful, but her posture relaxed and she reached for him herself, admiring the slide of the shuttered moonlight across his battle scarred skin.

"I'm adaptable, too."

* * *

_To be continued…_

* * *

**Author's (Long and Unnecessary) Note:** And so ends the beginning of my own personal thoughts about how Bruce and Selina end up. I've read a few of these fics, but found that nothing really meshed with how I thought about the characters, so I decided to post this. To me, even in the aftermath of the Bat exploding, Bruce and Selina would still be at a stage in their relationship where they're feeling each other out, albeit with the conscious realization of what they _could_ mean to each other…eventually. The key word, for me, is "eventually." I don't really buy them falling in love with each other immediately, trusting each other with their respective demons right up front; sure, they might care deeply for each other early on, but they're both inherently guarded and paranoid people. In my head, at this point, there's an infinite sense of _possibility_ about their relationship, and they're trying to decide how, and where, to start. They're bantering, they're having wild, crazy sex (yes, that'll be in the next chapter, guys), but soon, all that darkness will come spilling out of its own volition, and then the (delicious) angst will start.

Anyways, those are just my insane ramblings, haha. Hope you enjoyed my first ever Nolan-verse fic, and **please** drop me a review if you have questions/comments/complaints :)

P.S. Bat/Cat's relationship had me thinking about Pablo Neruda's amazing "Love Sonnet XVII," and I'm going to be drawing heavily from it. Full text of the poem can be Googled, and I strongly recommend it; it's a lovely poem (and this is coming from someone who has no great love of poetry).


	2. The Storm

**Between the Shadow and the Soul**

Disclaimer: Don't own anything – Rating: T, soon M – Warnings: Strong language, carnality

* * *

_I do not love you as if you were a salt rose, or topaz_

_Or the arrow of carnations the fire shoots off._

_I love you as certain dark things are to be loved,_

_In secret, between the shadow and the soul._

"Love Sonnet XVII," Neruda

* * *

**02. ...the Storm**

* * *

He didn't have to speak the words to let her know that he thought she was beautiful. It was there, in the way his lips lingered on the pale, flawless expanse of her neck, in the way he held himself slightly above her and greedily looked his fill, taking in the sight of her long dark hair haloed around her face, her eyes half lidded with lust.

Selina was used to the words. She had learned early on how to take advantage of her long legs and perfect lips, how to swivel her hips in just the right way to leave men—and, occasionally, women—wanting more. Her looks were one of the more potent weapons in her arsenal, and she never hesitated to utilize them, with a kind of self-awareness that had little to do with ego and more to do with survival skills.

What she wasn't used to was this deep, dark burning that ate up her flesh as his gaze passed over it. If she had been the kind of girl who blushed, she was sure her entire body would be crimson by now, the way he was looking at her.

"Now you look like you want to eat me," she said, voice hoarser than she would have liked, arching against his body with a slight wriggle that sent pleasurable tingles straight up her spine.

"Read my mind," he said, leaning down to set his teeth against the spot where her neck met her shoulder, biting down when she made a noise of protest.

"Hey," she said, even as she moved her head to give him more room. "That's a bit too Cro-Magnon, don't you think?"

"I feel a bit too Cro-Magnon," he replied, his breath right against her skin. "Like I can't control myself."

"Could've fooled me," she said with a slight growl, shoving him up and onto his back with one swift motion. This whole staring-at-your-lover-in-the-moonlight thing was nice, but not very…_satisfying_. She took a moment to delight in the irritation in his expression, before straddling his lap and leaning closer. "Come on, Wayne. Do your inner Cro-Magnon proud. Let yourself go."

She leaned even closer, so that her lips hovered mere millimeters above his, and she could hear the sound of his heart beneath his ribs.

"_Lose control_," she commanded, digging her nails into his shoulders and looking straight into his dark, dark eyes as the silence of her bedroom dragged on for a long moment.

The only warning she got were the muscles she could feel bunching in his abdomen and legs, and then she was being thrown through the air, landing solidly against the mattress with a _whoosh_ as the air was knocked out of her lungs. She never got the chance to recover it, because then his mouth was slanting over hers, hard and hot and demanding, and she was opening up for it, glorying in the harshness of his kiss, greedy for all he was giving and still hungering for more. Selina was not the kind of girl who was simply satisfied with what she was allotted, and she fought him for more, always more, fisting her hands in his hair and wrapping her legs around his hips, urging him ever closer.

He gave as good as he got, punishing her painful tugs on his scalp with his teeth against the soft inside of her bottom lip, the vivid bruises he coaxed from her skin with his kisses. He ground down against her, again and again, his forearms braced against the bed on either side of her face, angling himself so that she threw her head back with a little groan that verged on desperation and only made him harder for her.

"Come on," she panted, between kisses. "_Come on_, Bruce, lose control." She writhed hard against his clothed groin, hot and unashamed, eyes wide open as they bore into his. Selina felt too large for her skin, like his touch and his scent and the way he devoured her had caused her cells and her tendons and her heart to expand until they simply couldn't be contained in her body, until they were nothing more than conduits for the deep, dark pulse of desire that burned deep in her bones.

Maybe he could read it all in her face, or maybe it was the way her legs tightened ruthlessly around his hips, but he relented, and it was like free falling over the edge of a cliff, wrapped tight around him as his fingers coaxed her body open, dragging pleasure out of her like he was stealing something priceless. Her own hands reached down to push his boxers off, wrapping themselves around his shaft and tugging until he groaned, deep and guttural, for her.

"Come on," she whispered, oddly tender, against the shell of his ear, and then he was pushing deep inside her, guiding her hips with his hands and seating himself in one stroke.

She gasped a curse, her spine arching up and off the mattress, eyes screwing themselves shut for a long moment as her muscles stiffened and contracted, getting used to his presence inside her body.

"You don't do anything half way, do you?" she managed, tilting her hips up to accept him even deeper.

He only grunted, his face buried in the crook of her neck, and she took that as her cue to move her hips, fucking herself on him with wild abandon, fingers digging heedlessly into the scarred skin of his back. With a noise between a growl and a pained groan, he moved to meet her halfway, slamming into her with enough force to knock her hips back hard into the mattress, pinning her with his weight as he took control.

She gloried in the unrestrained, desperate violence of it, urging him on with harsh, breathless moans and the ten points of pain in his flesh where she buried her nails. He was talking in her ear, now, meaningless curses and praises and sounds, his voice so rough it was almost like they were masked again, playing cat and mouse in the black Gotham night, and she couldn't help the shiver of pleasure the thought sent like an electric shock under the surface of her skin.

"Christ, Selina," he said, deep and dark and delicious against the softness of her cheek, his lips open and panting. "You're killing me."

"Not yet, I'm not," she shot back, cupping the hardness of his jaw, forcing him to look at her, forcing him to let _her_ look at the specter that had haunted her midnight thoughts for months. She didn't know what he saw in her expression, and she wasn't quite sure how to interpret his, but she felt, for a moment, the recognition of a kindred spirit in the taut lines of his face.

And then she was tightening against him, molding her body to his, feeling every inch of her skin heat with the pleasure of it, until she was falling again, falling and falling, before she hit the bottom in an explosion of sparks bright enough to blind.

* * *

When she awoke, it was to the harshness of the noon sun against her eyelids and an empty bed.

"Love 'em and leave 'em, huh Wayne?" she muttered to herself as she gingerly sat up, delaying opening her eyes as long as possible. Selina Kyle was no coward, but she wasn't a masochist, either—at least, not in these sordid matters of _emotion_ and _sentiment_. She had no desire to see the physical evidence of him, of them together, on her body and on her bed, when she instinctively knew she was alone in her bedroom.

Finally, after a long few minutes, she sighed and blinked her eyes open, squinting against the light. Her bedroom curtains had been flung open—_certainly_ not her doing—and there was a piece of paper stuck to the glass of her window, where she couldn't miss it.

Grabbing her discarded robe off the hardwood floor, she wrapped herself in it and stretched methodically, feeling some of the tension leave her muscles, before walking over to the window and examining the note.

His handwriting was neat and very masculine, and she couldn't help but think wistfully of her own chicken scratch. He really was a perfectionist, wasn't he? Right down to his damn handwriting.

She sighed and plucked the note off the glass, reading silently to herself.

_Had some business to take care of. My birth date is February 19__th__, 1972. No middle name._

_See you in Paris._

_-BW_

"See you in Paris," she said to herself. "Right." Despite what she said aloud, however, she couldn't quite squash the burgeoning feeling of anticipation rising in her chest at the information he'd left her, and what that entailed.

She headed out into her living room, where she'd stashed her laptop away to discourage looters, and powered it up.

Carefully connecting the plain little USB, she waited for the program to boot up, drumming her fingers restlessly on the kitchen counter.

Once it was loaded, she stared at the nondescript window for a long moment. There was a field for first name, middle name, and last name, followed by one for birthdate—the European way, date, then month, then year. At the bottom, there was a button labeled "Enter."

That was it.

Doubt twisted her gut, not for the first time, but she ignored it and typed in her information. Now or never.

Her laptop whirred for a solid thirty seconds, the screen frozen, and bile rose in her throat. _Oh God, no_.

Before she got too nauseous, though, the machine made a little beeping noise, and the window blacked out, until there was only a line that said "Clean Slate Successful."

Fingers trembling, she opened up her browser and typed in "Selina Kyle."

The first result was the webpage of a blonde, blue-eyed "professional model," advertising her "elegance, sophistication, and intelligence, equal to her sex appeal."

"_Jesus Christ_," she exhaled, switching back to the program and starting a new operation. She typed in Bruce's information, waiting impatiently for it to finish. If this thing could erase the existence of Gotham's favored son, she would feel a hell of a lot safer about her own identity.

One Google search later, and she was out of her chair and kneeling in front of the toilet, throwing up the little she'd ingested since yesterday.

Wiping her mouth with a short curse, she leant against the tub and closed her eyes.

It was over. As far as the world was concerned, this Selina Kyle was nothing more than a few newspaper articles and a whispered rumor in the Narrows.

She felt unbearably light.

* * *

"Ma'am, could you please turn your cellphone off? We're about to depart."

Irène Dubrovna looked up at the blandly pleasant face of the flight attendant, and pointedly held down the power button of her phone until the screen turned black.

The flight attendant, clearly holding back her irritation at another snooty passenger, moved on with a curt nod. Irène leaned back against her headrest, turning dark eyes to the barely visible runway outside the small window to her right.

She had left Gotham before, each time swearing she would never return, but this time, she wasn't just leaving a city of brick and blood behind—she was leaving all of its beauty, its ugliness, its ability to crush hopes and send dreams soaring.

Or, at least, she was trying.

She closed her eyes, and like clockwork, felt the phantom brush of his lips against her collarbone, the pressure of his mouth on the delicate pulse of blood beneath her throat.

"See you in Paris," she said quietly, like it was a curse and a benediction, eyes rapidly blinking open again.

Overhead, the captain was making his departure announcement, droning on in a thick French accent. She settled deeper into the seat, smirking when she remembered how easy it had been to talk one of the airport workers into giving her a spot with no neighbor.

There were things to do in Paris, people she wanted to see, an entire, glittering city to scrub away the uncomfortable prickling the thought of Bruce Wayne left under her skin. She had made her plans without any allowances for him; pragmatism had dictated it would be foolish to form her new life around someone she was half sure she'd never see again, and Irène was nothing if not a pragmatist. Even if he _did _come looking for her, she reasoned, there wasn't a whole lot of material to use to track her down. She had a new name, a new story, and an untraceable stash of money.

No, if Bruce Wayne never showed up, she'd forget about it soon enough.

And yet, like a stupid, horrible cockroach that refused to die, even when faced with nuclear apocalypse, a little flame burned deep in her chest, murmuring _what if_s into her blood and reminding her of how the name _Selina_ sounded on his lips.

God, when had she turned into such a _girl_?

With a shudder, she closed her eyes and dreamt of waking up in Paris.

* * *

_To be continued…_

* * *

**Author's Note:** I can't take credit for the name Irène Dubrovna; it's a canon alias of Selina Kyle in the DC 'verse. I actually kind of hate typing out Irène because of all the effort of having an accented "e," so would you guys mind terribly if I got lazy and switched back to Selina?

…Haha…yeah. I really _am_ that pathetic.

Anyways, I think it's probably about time to switch this fic to an M rating, but I'll leave it up to my readers—is it steamy enough/full of enough cuss words to garner a higher rating? I'm really terrible at judging what's age appropriate and what's not; I don't think I've ever paid attention to a movie's rating in my life.

As always, if you have questions/comments/complaints, please leave me a review! I've gotten some really thought-provoking ones that make me re-analyze how I characterize Bat/Cat.


	3. À bout de souffle

**Between the Shadow and the Soul**

Disclaimer: Don't own anything – Rating: T, nearly M – Warnings: Strong language, carnality

* * *

_I do not love you as if you were a salt rose, or topaz_

_Or the arrow of carnations the fire shoots off._

_I love you as certain dark things are to be loved,_

_In secret, between the shadow and the soul._

"Love Sonnet XVII," Neruda

* * *

**03. À bout de souffle**

* * *

Paris, much like Gotham, was not the kind of city you could ignore. It lived, it breathed, it swung you around in its arms like so much flotsam in the undertow. Irène was a fan.

She'd gone straight to 27 quai Voltaire as soon as the plane landed, knowing that there was only one place her old mentor would be so close to dinner time on a Sunday night. Le Voltaire was a small, elegant little bistro, housed in an unassuming square building, and nearly lost against the flash of the expensive, luxurious 7th arrondissement.

He was sitting at a table outside, sipping wine and gazing out at the river. As sharp as ever, he turned his weathered face towards her and looked her straight in the eyes as she approached. He was definitely older than she remembered, his hair a bright snowy white, but he still possessed all of the arrogant elegance of his youth and the spryness of someone decades younger.

"And so the lost lamb returns," he said, faint accent coloring his English.

"_Returns_ is a strong word," she responded, seating herself at his table. An attentive waiter hurried over to take her order, but she simply pointed at the glass of wine and said, "Another one, please."

"What should I call you, these days?" he asked, perceptive old eyes studying her face, taking in the darker hair and the large square glasses with their stark black frames.

"Irène," she said, sipping at her glass of wine. It was lovely, rich and warm as it slid down her throat.

"Then you may call me Arsène," he replied serenely, without shame.

She almost spit out her next mouthful of wine in incredulous laughter. "Really? Arsène? Don't you think that's a little…blatant?"

"It's no more ridiculous than you calling yourself Irène," he said, sternly, as he straightened up in his chair and fixed her with a penetrating look. She shifted uncomfortably. His eyes, a bright, electric blue, had always been able to make her squirm.

"What, you don't like the name?"

"It's not your name."

"You're the one who taught me all about the value of a new name," she said, raising a brow at him in consternation. "It seems a little hypocritical for you to lecture me about mines. I don't even know what to write down next to your number in my phone book."

"It is one thing to take a new name," he said. "It is another to bury yourself in one."

She scoffed, and said, "Believe me, I'm still the same person I ever was, underneath."

"Are you?" he asked, standing up with the same quick grace she remembered from her teenage years as his protégé, when Paris had been a lifeline as she was drowning in the sea. "Come see me again before you leave, Selina."

She watched him walk off down the street, speechless.

* * *

She had settled on a place in the 11th arrondissement, around Rue Oberkampf in the north. It was an urban neighborhood, quick paced and loud, full of grungy bars and smoking twentysomethings. It suited her just fine, and never let her get too bored.

Her apartment was small but beautiful, perched high above the crowds, with huge windows that opened onto the street and skylights that let in the sun. She wandered the Clignancourt Flea Market and the Quartier Saint-Germain-des-Près on the weekends, hunting down antique nightstands and two hundred year old cameos. Soon, the inside of her new apartment was as colorful and cluttered as her old one, but she only shrugged and bought more leather bound first editions to place on her shelves. In the evenings, she'd sit out on her little wrought iron balcony, people watching and sipping wine, relaxing from days spent reacquainting herself with the city and browsing its endless museums. She'd sometimes do a little work for a gallery or two, on a freelance basis, but she'd stashed enough away over the years to live comfortably for a while yet.

She had been in Paris nearly two and a half months, filling her days that way, when Jack Girard showed up at her door.

He had the gall to laugh at her glasses, and she said, "You know, these are very popular in Paris right now. I was going for the sexy librarian look."

"I don't think I've ever met a sexy librarian," he remarked, leaning against her doorframe, his gaze taking in every inch of her and letting her know that she'd at least nailed the "sexy" part.

"You go to libraries?" she shot back, refusing to act like it was anything special that he'd shown up, like _he_ was anything special. "I didn't know billionaires did that. It seems too plebian."

"I think I'm just a hundred millionaire now," he said mildly. "If I'm lucky."

"How sad."

"Aren't you going to invite me in?" he asked, and only the shadow of something uncertain in his expression made her step aside with as much grace as she could muster after the gauchely pleased shock she'd unintentionally shown him when she answered the door.

He was looking around her apartment with interest, picking up the curios she'd accumulated and examining them before moving on to her bookshelves.

She took advantage of his turned back to observe him fully. He was moving with a slight limp, and the sunlight streaming through the windows highlighted the silver streaks in his dark hair, but otherwise, it would be hard to tell based on his appearance that he'd just survived a broken back and narrowly avoided the detonation of a nuclear bomb. He was wearing charcoal gray slacks and a black cashmere sweater, its sleeves rolled up to show off his plain, tasteful watch. It was all very Ralph Lauren—the absolute furthest thing from body armor and throwing knives.

"Experimental injections," he said, without turning around. "Ozone gas and steroids into the spine, to help relieve the pain. I started after a few surgeries. There's a doctor in Germany who's got some exciting ideas."

"How's the healing?" she asked, and found that it wasn't just small talk, she genuinely wanted to know. His face looked much more relaxed without the lines that chronic pain had put around his mouth and eyes.

"Better than I thought it would go, really," he said, turning to face her. "But it was nice to get rid of the cane."

"And how are the stitches?" she said, raising a brow.

He smiled then, the same half smile that had made her kiss him months ago in a small bathroom in Gotham, and said, "Hardly a scar. I told you, it was all very professional. Better than the guy who sewed up my back."

"Flatterer," she accused. "There's only so much praise a girl can take for her suturing before it becomes indecent."

"Aren't you going to ask me what I'm doing in Paris?" he said, changing the topic entirely and dropping the light, bantering tone. He studied her with an intensity that made her a little uncomfortable. "I mean, I don't even like Paris."

"What are you doing in Paris?" she said, flatly, dropping into an armchair that was surrounded by stacks of magazines and paperbacks piled haphazardly on the hardwood floor.

He remained standing, tucking his hands into the pockets of his slacks.

"Once I left a note on a woman's window, telling her I'd meet her here." There was something terribly strange about his voice, and she thought it might be the same emotion she'd glimpsed earlier—an emotion that was almost…uncertainty. He seemed to have quite a bit of trouble hiding it. Then again, she doubted being less than absolutely confident was a common, or pleasant, feeling for the Batman.

"That's it," he said. "That's what I'm doing in Paris." His tone held a certain finality, and she thought she might be missing something. What, exactly, was he trying to say?

It took a moment before the significance of his words dawned on her.

He was saying that he'd come for her—that the _only_ reason he'd come was for her. He was saying that Bruce Wayne wanted Selina Kyle badly enough to get on a plane, fly in from God knows where, expend considerable effort tracking her down, and then face a living, breathing reminder of the city that had nearly destroyed him

That's what he was saying.

"_Oh_," she said. "That's…I mean, I…" For once, she floundered for the right words.

"I meant it when I wrote it, and I still mean it now," he said, quietly. "I just wanted you to know that. That's all."

"Alright," she said slowly. "Okay."

They were both clearly uncomfortable with what was, for them, a very blatant display of sentiment, but Selina was glad he'd said it, and she thought he was, too.

"So," he continued, after a short pause. "I might not like Paris, but I do like Venice."

"I've never been," she said. "Not a huge fan of water."

He looked amused for a second, like he was laughing at a private joke. "Well, Carnival is right around the corner. I haven't been to one in years, and since we both have an affinity for masks, I thought you'd like to come as well."

"Seems like a big tourist trap," she said doubtfully.

"The beauty of Carnival is that it is whatever you wish it to be," he responded.

"What are you, Yoda?"

"You…didn't really pay attention during _Star Wars_, did you?" he asked, the corner of his lips lifting.

"Not really my style," she said. "I was always more of a _Star Trek_ kind of girl."

"That's the sexiest thing I've ever heard a woman say," he said, and this time she felt a spike of pleasure at surprising a genuine smile out of him.

"I always knew the whole hotshot billionaire cool guy thing was just a cover. You're a geek!" she accused, curling up in her armchair and peering at him through narrowed eyes.

"They're not mutually exclusive. And if liking _Star Trek_ makes me a geek, it makes you one, too. I always knew that whole femme fatale cat burglar thing was just a cover."

"Femme fatale, huh?" said Selina. "You sure know how to make a girl blush, _Jack_. Maybe I'll go to Venice, after all. Though I have to ask, is that why you said you wanted to go to Italy, back in Gotham? You wanted to attend Carnival?" It seemed far-fetched, to say the least. As far as she knew, Carnival was one big, orgiastic party, and she had never pinned Bruce Wayne for the party type. Or the orgy type.

"No," he said, "that's not why I wanted to go to Italy, but it's a nice pit stop."

"On the way to…?" she prompted, aware that she was edging close to forbidden territory but curious enough to test him.

His expression was guarded as he considered his response. "On the way to Florence."

She studied him for a moment. "So I'm invited to Venice, but not to Florence." Selina couldn't help but push a little and try to understand the subtext of his words. It wasn't in her nature to be less than fully informed before entering into a dangerous situation—and she had a feeling being Bruce Wayne's traveling companion was going to be eminently dangerous.

_Christ_, when had she decided to travel with him?

If she was being honest with herself, she had never really intended to say no. She loved Paris, but she was languishing here. She filled her days with antiquing and espresso, for Christ's sake, trying to ignore the itch of wanderlust that was implicit to her vagabond nature.

"I don't mean it the way you phrased it," Bruce said, bringing her back to the conversation. "I've just got some personal business in Florence, that's all."

"You don't need to explain yourself," she said, sincerely. "We're just traveling companions, headed to Venice for Carnival. You're attempting to convince me that a city built entirely on water and slipping further into the sea every year can be charming."

"I _will_ convince you," he said. "I have every confidence in my abilities."

"We'll see," she said. "I happen to be quite strong-willed, you know."

"I know," he said, the lines beside his eyes crinkling in a sort of silent little smile. "Carnival's seventeen days long. Think you can take time off from…ah…work?"

She almost rolled her eyes at the way he'd chosen to bring up her _profession_. "Subtle, Wayne. As it happens, I'm on extended leave."

"Great," he said, not bothering to cover up the pleasure he took in her words. She frowned at it, disliking the judgment he was obviously passing, but let it go…this time. It wasn't a battle she wanted to fight at the moment.

"So should we book plane tickets?" she asked, trying to move the conversation away from the topic of her job.

"I thought we'd drive," Bruce said blithely.

Her eyebrows shot up at that. "You want to drive across two countries…from Paris to Venice? What, did you have the Bat tank shipped over?"

"It's called the Tumbler," he said. "And no. I have something better. Though I did wonder what you did to my motorcycle."

"That thing wasn't a motorcycle," Selina replied. "It was a _beast_. But it's safe, don't worry. I took good care of it."

"That's not what I asked," he said, shaking his head, though it was obvious he wasn't really annoyed. "I'm never getting it back, am I?"

"We'll see," she said breezily. "I have to say, I like your taste in vehicles so far. What've you got for me this time?" Selina had always been a bit of a mech head, ever since her erstwhile father had shown up with a "borrowed" '68 Corvette and taught her what a carburetor was the summer after third grade. It was one of the few good memories she had of her childhood.

"You want to come see it?" Bruce asked, giving her that eye-crinkle smile again. She was starting to find it kind of charming.

"Of course I do," she demurred. "You can tell a lot about a man by what cars he likes, you know. And it would be remiss of me to go gallivanting about Europe with a man who likes crap cars."

"Well, come on then," he said. "It's parked nearby."

She got out of her chair and led the way to the door, locking it behind them carefully. Old habits die hard.

Her apartment building faced a busy street, so she followed Bruce out a side entrance onto a smaller one, lined on each side with practical European models and the occasional luxury sedan.

She spotted his car immediately, and couldn't help the delighted laugh that escaped her. Without waiting for him, she quickly walked over to it and began examining the impeccable paint job and beautiful lines.

"So do I pass inspection?" Bruce asked, watching her run reverent fingers over the hood.

"Hell yeah you do," she said, gracefully vaulting over the closed driver's side door and into the car. He'd left the hood down, and from the sidewalk, he could see her inspect the toys embedded into the dashboard and finger the buttery soft black leather seats. "A Maserati GranTurismo—you, Mr. Wayne, sure know how to impress a girl. Zero to sixty in under five and two tenths seconds, maxing out at four hundred and thirty three bhp...and it looks like sex on wheels, too."

"Yeah, I mostly bought it because it was pretty," he said, and she opened her mouth to berate him before she realized he was laughing at her enthusiasm.

"Oh, alright," she snapped, climbing gracefully out of the car. "Laugh. But you're just not appreciating the _beaut_—,"

"Oh, I appreciate it, alright," he interrupted. "Get back in. You're the best accessory for it I've found so far."

He wasn't even joking. Selina in the driver's seat of the sleek, low slung machine, with its impeccable curved lines and matte black finish, had truly been a sight to behold.

"Hey, this isn't _Car and Driver: Playboy Edition_, you know," Selina said, leaning against the car. "I'll get in and fuel your little nerd fantasy, but only if you let me drive this thing at least….three quarters of the way to Venice."

"Forty percent of the way."

"Sixty percent."

"Forty five percent."

"Sixty _five_ percent."

"Fine. Fifty percent."

"You've got yourself a deal, Jack," she purred, catching the keys he threw at her and entering the conventional way this time. "Appreciating the view?" she asked, as she settled back against the driver's seat, aware of his eyes on the expanse of her throat she exposed when she tilted her head against the headrest.

He hummed in agreement, then walked over to passenger's side and settled into the seat next to hers.

She'd turned her head to look at him, about to comment on the engine capacity, when she caught the look in his eye. A split second later, he was pressing her back against the seat, one hand holding her jaw in place as his mouth opened hers, right in the middle of a quiet street in Paris.

She couldn't help the quick gasp she let out, fingers instinctively reaching out to tighten in the folds of his sweater, bunching up the fabric as she tilted her head further for him, changing the angle of their kiss.

He tasted like strong, dark coffee and mint toothpaste, she thought, moving from his mouth to the hard line of his jaw, wresting control from him. He let her, for a brief moment, until she'd reached his pulse point with her lips and teeth, and then, with a strangled groan, he quickly lifted her from the driver's seat and set her down in the back of the car.

"Hey, what's the big idea?" she said, startled despite herself and with more than one thought towards his bad back.

He didn't answer, instead clambering over the seat himself before drawing her down into his lap, knees against the leather on both sides of his hips.

"Two hundred thousand dollar convertibles aren't the best for making out," she said, highly amused when he started pressing kisses to her face. "Seats are too narrow. This is usually best reserved for minivans and such."

"Shut up," he growled in her ear.

She snorted, but did as he asked, sliding her palms up underneath his sweater to feel the warm, living skin of his stomach and chest as he kissed her and kissed her, playing her body like a damn violin. His fingers skated along the wide neckline of her plain white blouse, pushing it down around her shoulders and exposing her bare skin.

"No bra," he breathed, moving his mouth to the flesh of her shoulder. "Very nice."

"Hey, this is France," she said, keeping her voice steady despite his efforts. "Bras were never really a thing."

"I think I might change my mind about Paris," he murmured against the valley between her breasts.

"Not before Paris kicks us both out," she responded, finally noticing the glares people on the sidewalk were shooting them both and remembering that yes, they were in fact still in a convertible with the top down.

"Hit that button," he said, pointing towards the dashboard.

She leaned back obligingly, twisting her torso to reach it without leaving the backseat. His hands were pushing her blouse up, resting on the taut curve of her stomach and distracting her. She glared at him as she finally managed to hit the button and straightened herself out. Around them, the soft hood of the car was smoothly whirring into place, and the tinted windows were rolling up to enclose them in a semi-dark cocoon of leather and chrome.

"We're too old for this," she breathed, mouth and hips moving against his.

"No one's ever too old for this," he responded, pushing her shirt up and over her head. "Plus, I knew the Maserati turned you on."

* * *

_To be continued…_

* * *

**Explanatory Notes:**

Arsène Lupin is a famous fictional "gentleman thief" who is roughly comparable to a French Sherlock Holmes—hence, why Selina's teacher is making fun of her by taking on his name.

À bout de souffle is the name of a French New Wave film (translated into English as "Breathless") in which, to be brief about it, a criminal attempts to run away to Italy with his ambivalent American girlfriend. It's a personal favorite of mines, so I couldn't resist a mention.

**Author's Note:** I'm issuing a blanket apology right now for my butchery of Parisian geography and any European geography I might mess up in the future. I'm, at best, vaguely familiar with it, but I promise to do my best to represent these places fairly. If I'm really doing horribly and you're familiar with the city, please leave me a review or PM, and I'll try to fix it.

So I know a lot of you were expecting the next few chapters to be fairly angst ridden, and that's what I expected, too, but as I was writing out Bat/Cat's impromptu reunion, it didn't feel natural to me to have them doing any big sentimental declarations or impassioned fights. I guess I simply felt that they weren't really obligated to each other in any way yet, so I tried to keep it light but with the uncomfortable undertone of all those things they haven't said or won't say to each other (…yet). Anyways, I'm honestly not too confident about this chapter, so feel free to leave any constructive criticism or feedback you might have. I thought about rewriting the whole thing over and making it darker, but I decided against it at the last minute.

Lastly, I'm a pretty visual person, and I tend to accumulate a lot of graphics and such that inspire me when I'm writing. If you're interested in how Selina's apartment looks like, how the Maserati looks like, or how Bruce looks like as a preppy rich guy, check out the Tumblr I started to archive all the visuals related to this fic. I've linked to it in my profile, or you can find it at **rusty-halos dot tumblr dot com**.

See you guys next update! ;)

P.S. Thanks so much to my anonymous reviewers, I really wish I could respond to you all but I'm afraid that would bloat my already huge A/N.


	4. Indulgence

**Between the Shadow and the Soul**

Disclaimer: Don't own anything – Rating: T, nearly M – Warnings: Strong language, carnality

* * *

_I do not love you as if you were a salt rose, or topaz_

_Or the arrow of carnations the fire shoots off._

_I love you as certain dark things are to be loved,_

_In secret, between the shadow and the soul._

"Love Sonnet XVII," Neruda

* * *

**04. Indulgence**

* * *

"How do you take your coffee?"

"Is this another one of your tests?" asked Bruce, leaning back in his chair and surveying Selina's admittedly horrible bedhead and lingerie clad body as she moved around in her apartment's tiny kitchen.

She paused for a second, raising one dark brow at him. "That depends on your answer."

"But my answer depends on _your_ answer," he protested.

"Suck it up," she said, unsympathetic. "And tell the truth. You're not one of those people that pollutes perfectly good coffee with that artificial creamer crap and eighteen teaspoons of sugar, are you?"

"No," he responded. "I drink mine black."

She rewarded him with a little smile that curled around her lips for a split second. "You know, you can tell a lot about a man by how he takes his coffee."

He threw his head back and laughed, and she nearly dropped the coffee pot at the sound, deep and rich with a kind of mirth that seemed, frankly, uncharacteristic.

"I assume I passed, then," he said.

"You did," she replied, scrutinizing him. Maybe his back was having a good day? Or maybe he'd been generous with the painkillers this morning.

"What?" he asked, raising his own brows at her.

"Nothing," she said, looking down at the two mugs she'd set out on the kitchen counter. "Let me know if you need a little milk, though. I haven't met anyone yet who could take the way I make my coffee."

"Try me," he said, absentmindedly flipping through last night's _Le Monde_.

She shrugged and poured the brew, breathing the heady, rich scent deep into her lungs and letting it settle there, warming her from the inside out. Walking outside onto the balcony, she set one of the mugs down on the little wrought iron table in front of Bruce, and cradled her own as she settled into the chair across from him, basking in the afternoon sun.

Aware of her eyes on him, he took a deep drink from his mug, keeping his gaze on her face over its rim.

_Damn it_, she thought. He was giving her that eye-crinkle smile again, and looking quite pleased with the coffee.

"No milk necessary," he said pleasantly, offering her the paper. She took it with a small sigh, and flipped to the international section.

The unmistakable skyline of Gotham stared back at her.

"Jesus," she said, scanning the article as quickly as she could. Her spoken French was excellent, but her grasp of the written language was intermediate at best, even after months in Paris. She hadn't exactly learned it in school.

"I'm trying this new thing where I don't obsess over everything even remotely related to Gotham," Bruce said mildly. "I'm just giving you fair warning."

It was a fluff piece, detailing the city's rebuilding process, but that wasn't the point. Selina leveled a quick look at him. God knows he deserved a break from that wretched city, but it didn't seem to be in his nature to let things go so easily, so freely.

Then again, he _was_ passing his time with a woman who pretty much embodied the Gotham way of doing things. She was a one stop shop for thieving, scheming, and corruption.

It occurred to her that she might be a proxy. Now that he was forced to stop saving Gotham, he'd moved on to attempting to save _her_.

It was an unsettling thought that roiled deep in her stomach and made her slightly nauseous. _Stop overthinking things_, she admonished herself. _That's ridiculous. And way too Freud._

Determined to get back to her good mood, she put the newspaper down and sipped her coffee.

"So," she said, conversationally. "Why _is_ it that you don't like Paris?"

"I find it…overbearing," he said. "Just a little too contrived."

"That's a very odd thing for Bruce Wayne, professional billionaire wastrel, to say."

"That's exactly it. It reminds me of the watered down champagne you get at a cocktail reception right before a stuffy opera. Served in flute worth one thousand dollars, but still unsatisfying."

"And you're more of a….?"

"Scotch person."

"Of course," she said. "I should've guessed. But if you're going to make me like Venice tomorrow, allow me to make you like Paris today. One bit of it, at least."

"I like this bit," he said, gesturing towards her apartment.

"Another bit, then. I don't suppose you smoke cigars?" A plan was starting to form in her mind.

"Not really, unless circumstances force me to," he said. "My father was an aficionado, but I never developed the taste."

"That's because you've never smoked a truly great cigar," she said. "And Paris is the perfect place to have your first one."

"Very Lost Generation of you," he remarked.

"An old friend taught me to appreciate a fine bottle and a finer cigar in Paris," she said, fondness softening her features for a second. Her old mentor _had _asked her to come see him before she left, but she figured he wouldn't be too offended if Selina spent the night cultivating cigar appreciation instead.

"And you mean to do the same to me?" he asked.

"If I have to," she said with a small smile. "You're remarkably uncultured, you know."

"Ah, yes. I skipped finishing school and went straight to university. Didn't I mention that?"

"Are you calling me prissy?"

"If the velvet cravat fits…"

"Sometimes you just have to sink back into the silks and enjoy life, Wayne," she said, mostly serious now. "You've got all that money, but I bet you've never spent a bit of it having honest to God fun."

"It's hedonistic and unnecessary," he said, an edge entering his voice.

Even though he hadn't said it, she could almost hear the remainder of his sentence: …_and all the honest to God fun _you've_ had has been on someone else's stolen dime._

"Indulge me," she said, trying her hardest not to snap at his quick judgment.

His lips thinned. "Sure." It sounded like he said it between clenched teeth.

_Well,_ she thought. _That went downhill fast._ She got up abruptly, and brought her mug inside to rinse in the sink. It was nearing three in the afternoon already—they'd been up all night and into the early hours of the morning, then slept in until one thirty. The place she'd meant to take him to tonight would be open around six.

"Selina," she heard from behind her, and she glanced at him over her shoulder.

"Yes?" she said, keeping her voice even.

"Whatever you thought I meant…" he trailed off.

"I didn't think anything," she replied, turning back around to dry her mug and put it back into a cupboard. "If you don't want to—,"

"I didn't say that," he interrupted, and she could tell by the sound of his voice that he'd stepped closer to her. "Look, you're right. I don't know how to have fun. I _don't_ have fun. I've never had the time or the will."

She turned around to lean against the counter and face him. "You don't need _will_ to have fun, Bruce. Fun is what happens when you don't will anything."

By the look on his face, she could tell he hadn't the faintest what she was talking about. She doubted Bruce Wayne was the sort of man who'd lived a day in his life without an ulterior motive, a plan. Without the inhuman force of will that drove him straightening his spine and strengthening his vision.

She didn't know if she envied that, or was a little glad she was more…fluid.

"If you'll trust me for one night," she said quietly. "Enough to let go, for a little while, you'll have fun. It's not so very hard, Bruce."

Selina knew that what she asked of him was more than he could comfortably give, more than _she_ would've been comfortable giving, and that was why she was all the more gratified when he nodded.

* * *

"Can you zip me up?"

Bruce looked up to see Selina coming out of the bedroom in her underwear, holding up a bit of deep blue fabric and black lace that was, apparently, her dress.

Obligingly, he turned her around so that he could get at her zipper, and slid it up the smooth, pale expanse of her long back. The dress was a tiny, beautiful ultramarine number that clung to every slender curve of Selina's body like a second skin, dipping low in both the front and back, and saved from actual indecency only by the layer of sheer, delicate black lace that covered it, draping gracefully across her body in swathes designed to draw the eye.

He raised an appreciative brow at her, and she smirked, crimson lips teasing, before sweeping back into the bedroom to grab her—hopefully non-serrated—stilettos and stark white blazer.

At her insistence that they wouldn't be let in otherwise, Bruce had driven back to the hotel room where he'd left his luggage to change into a dark suit and shirt, leaving off the tie. She'd given him a slow look of appreciation that would've made a lesser man blush, before announcing that he'd have to sit for a few minutes while she got dressed.

He had to admit that she was remarkably efficient about it—he'd known women who could spend hours picking out the right pair of earrings, but Selina had merely glanced over her selection before making quick, appropriate choices. She never once asked his opinion, and he didn't need to state how he thought she looked for her to know.

"Alright, ready," she said, walking out into the living room and adjusting the slim diamond bracelet around one wrist. Her long legs were daringly bare to the late winter chill of Paris, but she'd slipped into her blazer, cut tight and long so that it barely covered the high hemline of her dress. She was also in black heels so high it made them just about the same height.

He liked that about her—the unashamed, blatant power she took in her own looks, wielding them like the Glocks she favored.

They walked in comfortable silence to the Maserati, and he gave up the keys without a word; she was the one who knew where they were going, after all.

"No perfume," he observed, once they were speeding along the glittering avenues of Paris at night.

"Rookie mistake," she responded. "Lets people know you're there when you don't want them to know."

"Never hurts to be prepared," he murmured. "How many guns have you got on you right now?"

She shot him a quick glance as she guided the Maserati around a corner. "Just one."

"Liar," he said, reaching beneath her blazer and touching the holster she had tucked away. "Nice try, though."

"You must've seen it when the wind blew my jacket up!" she accused.

"I _do_ have some experience in these matters," he retorted. "You held your shoulders too stiffly."

She sighed irritably. "Fine, fine. I swear it's because I'm wearing this get up, though."

"Excuses, excuses," he murmured, looking out the window at the blurred outlines of the crowded sidewalks that they flew past.

"Is it…a problem?" she asked slowly, giving him a sidelong look.

His brow furrowed and he turned to look at her. "It's…none of my business, Selina. I know that."

Her lips tensed, and she focused on changing lanes for a moment. "Alright."

They pulled up at the legendary façade of the Ritz Paris a few minutes later, saving them both from the unusually awkward silence in the car. She savored the valet's surprised look when he opened the passenger side door, expecting to see a woman and getting an eyeful of Bruce Wayne instead. She opened her own door and tossed the valet the keys over the hood, making her way to the sidewalk where Bruce waited.

She led him inside the stately hotel, past the marbled lobby, and to a wooden sign that read, simply, "Bar Hemingway."

"Hope you've read _The Sun Also Rises_," Selina said, as a waiter hurried to seat them in the old fashioned, emerald green state chairs clustered in intimate groups of two and three around small walnut tables. The bar itself was a long, curving affair, with a kind of aged patina that spoke to its rather illustrious history, and the wall behind it was filled with shelves of fine liquor and literary memorabilia.

As Bruce settled into his chair, he observed the room. It was a small space, with room for maybe thirty, and it was well on its way to being crowded despite the relatively early hour. He'd heard of the Bar Hemingway, renowned as the dead author's favorite Parisian haunt, but had never taken the time to go during his brief trips through Paris. There had never been a point. He was glad he got the opportunity now, though—the atmosphere was intimate and elegant, but without the crusty stuffiness he'd come to associate with this city. Hemingway's own rifle was mounted on the wall, and the room seemed to encapsulate the kind of cynical, fascinating decadence of 1920s Paris and the Lost Generation itself that Bruce remembered permeating Hemingway's work.

"I knew you'd be a Hemingway sort of guy," Selina remarked, watching his face.

"Oh?"

She nodded. "You know, when I was a kid, I used to go to the Gotham Public Library in the summers, sometimes. For the air conditioning. I would look at the books on the shelves, but I never really read them, until one day I saw the cover of _The Old Man and the Sea_. The one with the bright blue ocean and the small little shacks sitting on the shore. I still don't know why, but I opened it up and started reading it. Once I started, I couldn't put it down. The old fisherman, Santiago—I loved him. At the beginning, all the people he knew considered him the worst form of unlucky—_salao_—because he hadn't caught a fish in eighty four days."

"But they were wrong about him. He ended up catching a giant marlin," Bruce continued the story quietly, fascinated by the low intensity of her voice and her unusual talkativeness.

"Yes, he did," she said. "But as he's hauling the giant fish back, to prove to all those people he's not unlucky, a shark attacks the carcass. Santiago kills it, but then there's another shark, and another. He tries to fight them off, but it's too much. They just keep coming and coming. By the time Santiago gets to shore, all he has left is the skeleton."

"Pretty impressive reading for a kid," Bruce said, watching the almost dreamy quality of her expression soften her beautiful features as she relaxed into her chair.

Selina shrugged. "I was obsessed with that story. I felt like I knew Santiago. When I got to Paris, the first thing I wanted to do was come here."

"Are you ready to order?" a polite voice inquired in slightly accented English, and they both looked up, startled out of their cocoon.

"Er…" Selina looked at him, and he said, "I'll have whatever she has."

"Two Serendipitys then," Selina said. "And could you please bring us cigars as well? Some from Monsieur Fitzgerald's case, please." The waiter nodded, and left.

"Monsieur Fitzgerald?" asked Bruce. "As in F. Scott?"

"The man who taught me what cigars even were," Selina said. "He won't mind."

"I'm assuming Fitzgerald isn't his real name, then," Bruce observed.

"No," she replied. "It isn't." She crossed her legs, one long limb over the other, knowing her dress was riding up to contrast with her pale skin in a way that, inevitably, drew his eyes.

It didn't take a genius to see she wouldn't say more on the topic, so he asked, "What is it about cigars that you like? I don't really understand the attraction."

She hummed deep in her throat, slim hands gesturing emphatically as she spoke. "It's sensual, Bruce. It's all about decadence, the physical reaction of all your senses, the sheer _pointlessness_ of it all. It's about…enjoyment. Reward. Sin." Her eyes flashed at the last word, dark lashes lowering before she gazed directly at him.

"The forbidden fruit?" he asked, intrigued by the way her voice had lowered, rasping over the syllables like she was telling him one of her secrets.

"Nothing so serious as all that," she said, with a small smile. "Just inhale, and forget. The luxury is not so much in the fineness of the smoke or the quality of the flavor, but in the ability to simply _be_."

The waiter arrived with their drinks and two cigars, hovering around to light them as Selina put hers to her crimson painted lips and gestured for Bruce to do the same. She inhaled deeply, letting the rich, chocolaty smoke settle deep into her lungs before exhaling softly and observing Bruce with heavily lidded eyes. Little tendrils of smoke escaped his mouth as he breathed out, and there was a queer look to his features, wistful and almost nostalgic, but not sad.

"Smells like my dad," he offered quietly. "I like it."

"He was a man of exquisite taste," she replied, lifting the cigar to her lips again.

She got an eye-crinkle smile for that, and they smoked peacefully together, sipping at their drinks and occasionally speaking about literature or making small talk, but mostly sitting in comfortable silence. They watched each other, observing with their eyes what couldn't be said in words, and as the night wore on, whether it was due to drink or something else, Selina stopped crossing her legs primly and sprawled gracelessly in her armchair, relaxed, while Bruce allowed himself to slouch back, enjoying the fine velvet under his fingertips and the beautiful woman at his table. He noted the burn of the alcohol down his throat and the texture of Selina's skin under the lamplight with the same precision as always, but without the clinical detachment that made him so good at what he did. Instead, he merely…_was_.

It was liberating, just simply existing.

When Selina announced that it was getting late, and she wanted one last French meal before they left for Venice in the morning, Bruce got up obligingly to help her shrug into her blazer. As the fabric settled over her slender shoulders, she felt his lips softly against the shell of her ear.

"I think I had fun tonight."

* * *

They didn't speak on the way back to the car, but as they walked, the backs of their hands brushed together, the whisper of skin against skin like a delicious shared secret, told between tastes of simple intimacy and wisps of cigar smoke.

* * *

_To be continued…_

* * *

**Explanatory Notes:**

Batman doesn't drink alcohol in the comics, usually covering it up by drinking ginger-ale, but Nolan's Bruce Wayne is just coming off of eight years of…well…angsty solitary moping. Chances are alcohol was involved. Or at least, it made sense in my head.

The Lost Generation is a term used to refer to the generation that came of age during World War I. The term was popularized by Ernest Hemingway, who used it in _The Sun Also Rises__._ It also refers to the modernist writers and artists of the 1920s "Lost Generation" expatriate community in Paris, consisting of Americans like Hemingway, F. Scott Fitzgerald, John Steinbeck, T.S. Eliot, etc., and centered on Gertrude Stein.

**Author's Notes:** I strove for authenticity with this chapter; Bar Hemingway, the Ritz Paris, etc. all exist, and pictures can be found on my Tumblr (**rusty-halos dot tumblr dot com**). I've also posted pictures of Selina's dress, Bale/Hathaway smoking and looking sexy, their cocktails…yeah, I'm a little crazed.

This chapter was really a chance for me to indulge in shameless Bat/Cat dialogue and interaction plus literary nerdage. I just couldn't let them leave Paris without giving the city its due, and this chapter was pretty much just a transition in their journey. I definitely didn't plan on writing it, but well…sometimes the plot bunnies just take over. I promise I'll try for something more substantial next, haha.

Hope you guys enjoyed the little piece of fluff, and see you next update :)


	5. La Serenissima

**Between the Shadow and the Soul**

Disclaimer: Don't own anything – Rating: T, nearly M – Warnings: Strong language, carnality

* * *

_I do not love you as if you were a salt rose, or topaz_

_Or the arrow of carnations the fire shoots off._

_I love you as certain dark things are to be loved,_

_In secret, between the shadow and the soul._

"Love Sonnet XVII," Neruda

* * *

**05. La Serenissima**

* * *

They set out from Paris early in the morning, with Bruce taking the first fifty percent of the six hundred and ninety one miles to Venice. Selina dozed in the passenger's seat, tired from their late night and lulled by the purr of the car's engine and the smooth ride that belied Bruce's maniacal driving. When he gently shook her awake near Geneva so she could take the wheel, she was definitely no better—Selina had always treated speed limits as more of a _suggestion_ than a hard and fast rule.

As they passed through Milan, Selina couldn't help glancing over at Bruce and noticing that he wasn't really sleeping, despite his closed eyes.

"Insomnia?" she asked, smoothly cutting off some poor bastard on the highway with a jaunty wave out the window.

"I'm just not very tired," he responded, keeping his eyes closed and his head tilted back against the seat.

Now that Selina thought about it, she really couldn't remember Bruce sleeping _ever_. He'd gotten up ages before her the few times they'd shared a bed, and she had no real way of knowing if he'd even gone to sleep in the first place. He had slight bags under his eyes, but they were ever present, and Selina had just figured that was the price he'd paid for the cape and cowl, along with a broken back and a penchant for painkillers.

"It's really none of my business," she said. "But you might want to try an Ambien or two, Wayne."

He cracked an eye open to glance at her. "I've never been big on sleeping. It's fine."

His tone was neutral, but she knew better than to press the issue. With an internal sigh, she went back to weaving in and out of traffic, but made a mental note to stay up later tonight and ensure he actually fell asleep.

Just to make sure he didn't pass out on her, of course.

* * *

As they neared Venice, Bruce guided her towards a private car park on the Italian mainland, where they could leave the Maserati.

"No cars in Venice," he explained. "We'll take a boat to the Stazione Marittima."

"Great," she said drily. "We'll be in a little bit of wood, fighting against the vast, vicious ocean, just waiting to tear us limb from limb and drown us in its fury."

"Dramatic, but false," Bruce said. "What is it with you and water, anyways? Besides the whole cat thing."

"You know, I don't even really like cats," she remarked. "The press gets everything wrong. I'm much more of a single-goldfish-in-a-tank kind of person."

"This thing where you answer a question I didn't ask with a meaningless bit of information—don't think I don't notice it," Bruce said, raising a brow at her but not pressing further.

A little riled, she simply said, "Don't read too much into it, Wayne. I just had a spot of childhood trauma with water, that's all." The moment the words left her lips, she could remember those hands around her throat, the grip unbreakable against her small, scrabbling fingers, holding her underwater until oblivion clawed at the edges of her consciousness, as seductive as a siren.

"And isn't it a bit hypocritical of you to scrutinize _my_ secrets?" she continued, shaking off the memories as best she could and turning her head to look out over the lagoon as they walked towards the boat.

"I suppose you're right," he said quietly, and her eyes narrowed.

He'd seen something, in her face or in her body language.

_Christ_, she thought.

"The Carnival will already be in full swing by the time we get to the city," Bruce said, ignoring the strained silence that had lapsed between them as she searched for a quick retort. "Especially as it's nearing sundown. Feeling up to getting our masks and then heading out?" Their luggage had been shipped ahead to their hotel, so they were free and clear for the night.

The thought of prowling the streets in a mask sent a thrill through Selina she'd rather pretend didn't exist. From behind a mask, she was invincible.

"Definitely," she replied. "But no feathers, and no bright colors." They stopped in front of a sleek little motorboat, painted all in black.

"You're thinking of the wrong Carnival," Bruce said with a half-smile, waving at one of the men inside the boat, who immediately came over to the dock and reached out a hand to help Selina in. "Carnival in Venice is all about the forbidden."

She raised a brow at Bruce as she ignored the hand and leaped gracefully onto the deck. He followed, despite the twinge of protest in his back and knees.

"The forbidden?" she questioned, as Bruce finished speaking to the two man crew in rapid, fluent Italian.

"Yes," he said, guiding her to the bow of the little boat, where they could watch the ocean flash by, lit up by the golden glory of the setting sun. "I might not know about fun, Selina, but I know a little about…pleasure. The kind that comes with anonymity and masks, in the dark."

"You better not be talking about scooping up a few pickpockets for the police," she muttered, despite the thrill his lowered voice sent through her blood.

"No," he said, fingers slowly tracing up her spine, circling the vertebrae and causing her to turn her eyes away from the water and towards his face. "Did you know that the people of Venice started wearing masks to protect their identities when they were engaging in…illicit activities?"

"No, I didn't," she said. "Sounds kinky."

He gave her one of his eye-crinkle smiles—God help her, she was starting to keep a mental tally of them—and continued. "Well, way back then, Venice was special in that near everybody was wealthy. It was one of the world's great Republics. But with that wealth came the machinations of the powerful. Concealing identity became essential to daily transactions—it was easier to cut deals when no one could see who you were scheming with, and the masks made it impossible to tell if you were passing servants or noblemen in the streets. Spies and state inquisitors could interrogate people without letting them know who was asking questions, and those people could answer without fearing for their lives. Because no one had a face, everyone had a voice."

"What was the catch?" Selina asked, intrigued by the way his voice wove a tapestry of a different time around them. She leaned back against the railing of the deck, next to him, as he gazed out at the city looming closer every minute.

"The catch was that people started taking advantage of those masks. Society began crumbling apart from the sheer decadence anonymity allowed. Combined with the travelers flowing in and out of Venice, it meant huge amounts of sexual promiscuity, gambling…even the clergy masked themselves and took part. The result was relentless hedonism, indolence, moral decay…it simply couldn't go on forever. Eventually, masks were banned except for a few months of the year, a time which they now call Carnival."

"Hedonism, indolence, and moral decay," Selina repeated, slowly, savoring the syllables like fine wine. "Sounds like my idea of a good time. Maybe that will make up for all this water."

* * *

Once they docked, he whisked her through the incredibly maze-like streets of Venice, already crowded with scores of masked revelers. The air was filled with Italian chatter and laughter, the language flowing like silk from lips hidden behind grotesquely beautiful masks with overlarge noses and blank mouths. A far cry from the scantily clad bodies of the Carnival Selina was more familiar with, everybody was swathed in luxurious fabrics from head to toe, rich jewel toned velvets and ludicrously huge hats topped with feathers and gems that picked up the colors of the dying sun. It was literally impossible to keep track of all the people swirling around her as Bruce led the way through back alleys and over beautiful bridges, seeming to know where he was going despite the riotous chaos.

As night fell rapidly all around them and torches began flaring up along the flagstone walkways, the darkly colored fabrics of the revelers' clothing began to fade into the night, leaving the most common, ghost white masks looking as if they were floating above empty air, disembodied, with their blank black eyes and missing lips.

All too soon, Selina felt, Bruce stopped in front of an unremarkable wooden doorway tucked in a wedge of wall space between what looked like a brothel and a casino. Drunken laughter spilled like lamplight from their golden doorways and windows, and she could see the shadowy shapes of the men and women inside.

"Where are we?" she asked, watching what looked like a rather tipsy lap dance taking place on the fourth floor of the brothel.

"The best mask shop in the city," replied Bruce, knocking loudly on the wooden door and calling something in Italian. After a few moments, the door creaked open, and an old man's wrinkled, irritated face greeted them.

Bruce was said something that sounded a bit cajoling, and the old man snapped something else that sounded much less pleasant. After five minutes of back and forth, the old man grunted with annoyance, but gestured them inside, disappearing into the darkness behind the door.

Selina followed Bruce inside, closing the door behind her, and was greeted by the sight of hundreds of glittering masks hanging along the walls of the little, claustrophobic shop. They gleamed in the faint light of a solitary lamp near the back of the room, standing on a desk which held what looked like the beginning of another mask.

The finished products on the walls seemed to cover every style that Selina had seen out on the streets, from the elaborate jeering jesters to the stark and frankly terrifying masks consisting of one long, curving beak the covered everything from the nose to the middle of the chest. Bruce had said into her ear that those masks were called _Dottore Peste_, or the Plague Doctor, when he'd seen her staring in fascination at one particularly hulking man sporting the look. Apparently, they were based on the actual masks doctors had used to keep themselves away from sickness as they visited plague victims. However ineffective they looked for that purpose, Selina couldn't help but morbidly enjoy the idea of scores of beaked doctors swooping about like great vultures of death along the narrow streets of Venice.

Bruce spoke to the irritable shopkeeper as Selina flitted from mask to mask on the walls, observing the meticulous craftsmanship and unique aesthetic of each one. There were huge, intricately painted and bejeweled affairs as well as simple half masks in plain black leather. She tried to imagine herself in one of them, but while she appreciated each, none of them particularly jumped out at her.

"Irène," she heard from behind her, and turned to see Bruce gesturing her towards the shopkeeper, who was taking something down from the cluttered display behind the desk.

When she saw the mask in his hands, she didn't bother to suppress her snort.

"A cat, Jack?" she asked.

He shrugged. "Unimaginative, but I remembered seeing one like this years ago. I think it suits you."

The shopkeeper gently placed the mask in her hands, with an admonishment in Italian that she took to mean _be careful, tourist_, and she brought it closer to her face so she could see the details in the dim lighting.

The mask was beautiful, like all the others, painted a pure white that gleamed with a subtle sheen that reminded her of pearls. The eyes were distinctly feline, and edged with silver gilt that continued in an intricate swirling pattern all over the mask. Beaten metal ears were attached to the top, which she could tell would cover half her skull and flatten her hair if she were to put it on. Likewise, the bottom of the mask extended to what would be a spot just above her lips, preserving her anonymity.

Bruce was watching her scrutiny with an amused expression. "Why don't you try it on? I guarantee you'll like the story behind it."

_Why not,_ she thought, liking the look of the mask even though it was flashier than what she, personally, would have picked. She pressed the mask to her face, feeling it settle comfortably over her features like it'd been carved just for her, then presented the back of her head to Bruce so he could tie the plain black ribbons that would keep it in place.

Once he finished, the shopkeeper gave her a small hand mirror. She turned her face this way and that, surprised and a little exasperated at how much she liked the frozen, taunting, _feline_ expression gazing back at her.

"I guess the press got it right, after all," Bruce remarked, examining her as well. "You can take the woman out of the cat suit, but you can't take the—,"

"Yes, yes, I get it," Selina said, rolling her eyes where they couldn't be seen behind the mask. "You're very clever."

"I try."

"What about your mask?" she inquired, carefully undoing the ribbons.

He shrugged. "I always get the same one when I come to Venice. It's called _bauta_." He pointed to a plain white mask on the wall, one of the more common designs she'd seen on the streets.

It had a stern, mocking air to it, with its heavy brow and nose leering out over a protruding square jaw line that tilted slightly upwards, covering the wearer's mouth and chin. This particular model differed slightly from the cheaply made masks she'd seen in that it was obviously made of porcelain, each curve lovingly crafted and beautiful in its grotesque starkness.

"I should've known," she said. "It kind of looks like you."

"I'm not sure if I should be insulted or not," he replied. "I originally chose it because it's traditionally worn with a big three pointed hat, a long cape, and a hood."

"Let me guess—all of that is black."

"Naturally."

"Has anyone ever told you that you're a pretty predictable guy?"

"Not lately. I like all of the black because it looks like the mask is floating along by itself at night."

She had to smile at that. "I noticed that earlier. Can't give up scaring people, can you?"

He shrugged. "No one's perfect."

"What's the cat mask usually worn with?" she asked.

"There's no rule with that one."

"Then all black it is. I like scaring people, too."

She caught the little smirk that curled around the corner of his mouth as he asked the shopkeeper to take the _bauta_ down. They each paid for their masks and accompanying costumes, then let the old man shoo them out. In the empty alleyway behind the shop, Selina pulled a heavy black shift out of their bag, and, with a quick glance around to ensure that only Bruce and the burgeoning moon could see her, stripped down to her underwear before pulling it on. The dark material clung tight all the way down her arms and torso then flared out in a full skirt at her hips. The fabric was worked with intricate, swirling embroidery in black thread, providing the only decoration on the dress.

Bruce buttoned up the back of the bodice with fast, efficient motions, clever fingers dealing with the tiny buttons much more quickly than Selina herself had ever managed. As soon as he was finished, he took off his sweater and pulled on the encompassing black cape and hood of his costume.

Both shrouded in dark fabric now, Selina held up Bruce's mask, and tied it securely to his face, helping him tuck the sides under his hood, and then set the heavy tri-cornered hat on his head.

"Hello, handsome," she said throatily, laughing eyes taking in his demonic visage. His height and the breadth of his shoulders made him a much better specter than the people she'd seen earlier.

She had a feeling he was grinning under the disturbingly blank mask, and he gestured for her to turn so that he could put hers on. Selina brushed all the hair back from the crown of her head, tucking it under the mask and letting it tumble down her back, as he tied the ribbons. She turned to face him again, customary crimson lips completing the impression of a smirking, scheming cat.

"I'm getting a bit nostalgic," he said, his voice muffled a little by the porcelain.

"Don't get too carried away," she said, grateful to her mask for hiding the effects of the queer feeling in her stomach at the unintended implication of his words. "The growly voice will just make me jump you right here, and we've still got plenty of Venice to see."

* * *

_To be continued…_

* * *

Credit to the Magic of Venezia website for this version of the story behind Carnival. I couldn't find too much on it, so I went with their version, despite the lack of scholarly citations and such. Plus I thought it was a neat story.

**Author's Note:** Ah yes, they've finally made it to Venice. If you happen to be familiar with the city, please let me know if I'm doing a satisfactory job portraying it—I want to do the places I write about justice. I also just posted a crapload of pictures of Venice, their masks, Carnival in general, etc. to my Tumblr (**rusty-halos dot tumblr dot com**), so if you're interested you can see them there. As always, thanks to all my anon reviewers; I wish I could respond individually to you guys.

Let me know if you have any questions/comments/etc., and see you next update :)


	6. Mirror, Mirror

**Between the Shadow and the Soul**

Disclaimer: Don't own anything – Rating: M – Warnings: Strong language, carnality

* * *

**PSA:** This story's rating has now been changed from a T to a **hard M**. I've finally decided to raise the rating instead of risk deletion (which has happened to me before), so if you're easily offended, I strongly encourage you to stop reading now. Thanks :)

* * *

_I do not love you as if you were a salt rose, or topaz_

_Or the arrow of carnations the fire shoots off._

_I love you as certain dark things are to be loved,_

_In secret, between the shadow and the soul._

"Love Sonnet XVII," Neruda

* * *

**06. Mirror, Mirror**

* * *

Selina was not the type who impressed easily, but God, did Venice at night impress her. She and Bruce moved through the crowds fluidly, easily, like black clad specters in a sea of laughter and jeers. Neither of them spoke, simply soaking in the electric energy that lingered in the air with vampiric delight. He led them through the wide, sweeping grandeur of the piazzas, where they lingered by ancient columns and watched street performers, then along the quiet loveliness of the canals, dotted with the reflection of the thousand lamps which illuminated the night. Everywhere, everywhere, there was a feast for the senses, and Selina ate of it greedily, drinking in with her eyes the false bejeweled finery of costumes against the dignified stateliness of the church spires which reached for the star spangled sky like so many grasping hands, trying to capture its serenity for their own.

Bruce, who had seen and loved Venice before, looked instead to her, though she hardly noticed, with her eyes turned hungrily outwards. Selina felt wide open behind her mask, intoxicated by the privilege of anonymity, and for the first time, the freedom of a clean slate lifted the corners of her mouth and relaxed the watchful instinct that had carried her through so many different nights in the past. Maybe it was something about Venice, or maybe it was something about wearing no one's face, but tonight, tonight the world was beautiful.

As she saw the beauty in their surroundings, tonight he saw the beauty in her. Oh, he'd always thought she was physically attractive, sensual, graceful, and even, when her hair was a mess from his hands and her bed, rather endearingly adorable, but tonight she was beautiful. Instead of covering her up, the mask had freed her, and there was a wildness to her movements and a carefree quality to her quiet laughter that made him want to gather her up and keep her near, smiling with crimson painted lips and whispering naughty, sarcastic comments into the private twilight between their bodies.

"Bruce," she said to him, the length of her torso arched out over the water as she leaned off one of the thousands of bridges scattered throughout the city. "Bruce, look at the view!"

He joined her at the top of the bridge, obligingly looking out over what seemed like endless miles of water to see the outline of a grand basilica in the distance, its shadowy domes and towers rising up against the night.

She went on about the sight, but he only half listened, instead savoring the low hum of her voice and the way it formed around the syllables of his given name. When she said his name, like it was the most natural thing in the world, he really felt like that man—like Bruce Wayne, just a rich guy who'd decided to spirit a woman away to Venice. For so long, Bruce Wayne's skin had sat over his own like an alien thing, unnatural and uncomfortable. It was as Batman, ironically enough, that he'd expressed his true nature, reveling in the darkness of the Narrows and the pulse-pounding exhilaration of a fight. But now—but now, Bruce Wayne was no longer a second skin—he just _was_.

This feeling of simply existing—ever since Paris, she'd kept it at the surface, with her jibes and her wit and the beckoning of her slim, clever fingers. Simply existing was starting to feel good.

And that was the first time the freedom of Bruce's own clean slate dawned on him, as he stood on a nondescript bridge on a nondescript street in the brilliance of the Venetian night.

And the first thing he did was cup Selina's slightly surprised face in his hands, and kiss her.

* * *

In retrospect, she could never be quite sure how they made it to the hotel so fast. As far as she could tell, his mouth never left hers. How he managed to navigate Venice's bewildering geography in the dark would forever be a mystery.

Selina _thought _they might have passed the famed Rialto Bridge, before turning a corner onto a little side street and entering a doorway to the right. They briefly encountered the night receptionist, who handed them their keys with a knowing smirk, then hastily made their way up to their room.

She barely had a second to take in the old-world luxury of it, and the view of the Grand Canal out the window, before he was pressing her down against the coverlet.

"Not that I'm complaining, but what brought this on?" she asked, arching for the touch of his fingertips against her sternum.

"You look good in black," he responded.

She breathed a laugh against his mouth as both of them began quickly separating cloth from skin. There was something hurried and greedy in his movements, spanning the paleness of her ribs with his hands and demanding instant gratification with lips against her breasts. It sent her pulse pounding into overdrive and her legs around his waist, as, without warning, he buried himself in her with one smooth, powerful thrust.

"Yes," she ground out, savoring the heat that surged through her body like lightning spiked adrenaline, feeling the answering tremor that raced through his flanks. She urged him on, faster and faster, with the movement of her hips and the bruising pressure of her fingers. "_Harder_."

He complied, forcing her legs up over his shoulders so that he was even deeper inside, drawing her under the waves for long, endless minutes until she couldn't help but tighten around him with a cry of anguished pleasure and come apart beneath his fingers. The heat and pressure of her climax had him following shortly, and soon, they were both sprawled out side by side, sweaty and satisfied.

After a moment of silence broken only by their harsh breathing, Selina stretched luxuriously on the coverlet, limbs heavy with satiation. "Nice warm up."

Bruce snorted. "That wasn't supposed to be a warm up."

"I didn't hear you protesting. Don't you have another round in you, old man?" She languidly guided her body over his, crouching on forearms and knees to look into his face.

"Worried my heart will give out?"

"Worried? I bet I could give you a heart attack all by myself." She slid down his torso, lips pressing hot kisses to the scarred skin of his chest and the tense muscles in his abdomen, before hovering for a split second above his groin. He watched her with eyes like embers, heated and burning, as she smiled and slowly slid her mouth down over him.

Bruce hissed out a breath, and she would have smirked if she wasn't otherwise occupied. Selina wanted him so hard he ached for her, hard enough for a round two that would leave her deliciously, painfully sore the next morning. She was clever with her mouth, tongue insistent and teeth dangerously teasing, until he started groaning her name. His eyes had never left her face, and now she met them with a little wink, gracefully lifting her lips away, swollen and a deep red that had nothing to do with cosmetics.

"Selina," he said again, hoarsely, as she tucked herself into his lap, legs sprawled lewdly to either side of his torso and breasts crushed against his chest. "Are you up for something else?"

"Always," she said immediately, unashamed of the lust that darkened her eyes.

He pressed a kiss to her mouth before urging her towards the foot of the bed. He followed, settling himself right on the edge, bare feet planted on the floor.

"Oh, you kinky bastard," Selina breathed, delighted, as she saw what he had in mind. A huge, antique, floor-to-ceiling mirror hung from the wall directly opposite their bed, its gilt frame heavily decorated with carved cherubs and vines. She moved to sit in Bruce's lap, back against the planes of his chest, then looked up into their reflection. His lips were buried in the crook of her neck, and she had her head thrown back against his shoulder, eyes heavily lidded and the faintest color touching the tops of her cheekbones. She could see everything—the slender line of her torso pale against his lightly tanned skin, the muscles that bulged in his arm as it held her in place, the older marks his teeth and lips had left scattered all over her body.

She spread her legs slightly, eyes glued to the mirror, and he helped her fold them back on either side of his body until she was resting on her knees, raised above him. Bruce met her eyes in the glass, face taut with desire, observing the explicit picture they made fully exposed like this.

"Let's fuck," Selina grinned at his reflection, impatient. She moved her hips into the right position, then sank down, hissing as they both watched her slowly impale herself, taking him in inch by inch until, breathing heavily, they were fully connected.

"God, you go deep this way," she nearly gasped, her skin crawling with little streaks of heat as she tried to adjust to the feeling of being stretched open again. Watching it all in the mirror had made it so much more intense, made her hypersensitive to every single inch of her that was touching his skin, hypersensitive to every minuscule movement of his shaft inside.

Bruce held still, eyes tracking her restless movements before settling on the spot where their bodies met. He brought one hand around, finding her clit and gently pinching it.

"_Fuck_," she groaned, her entire body arching back and locking down, muscles contracting around him as the feeling surged through her blood. The sharp spike of pain laced pleasure was exactly what she wanted. She raised herself off him, holding his gaze, then hovered for a split second before taking him again, all the way down to the hilt with a noise that strangled in her throat.

"Good?" he questioned, voice rough and guttural. "Because you really are going to kill me if you don't let me move."

Instead of responding, she reached down to flick her own clit, eyes dark and challenging. This time, when she rose off him again, he placed both hands on her hips and forced her down hard, thrusting his hips up simultaneously so that they connected with a lewd, fierce slap of skin on skin and a mutual groan.

"How's the heart?" she bit out, as they both picked up the pace, adjusting to the position.

"Shut up," he growled, fingers digging into her hips with ruthless intent.

"I like it when you get rough," she said, gasping as she caught sight of their bodies again in the glass. He was looking, too, admiring the muscles that corded in her neck and tensed in her long legs as she moved, the flat, smooth plane of her stomach clenching as she tightened around him, the little drops of sweat that slid down the valley between her breasts and caught the dim light of the lamp.

He raised a hand to tease the duskiness of her nipples, working a moan out of her that reverberated through his chest, as she responded by slamming down particularly violently, already so slick and open after round one that she didn't care how deep or hard she took him. They were both panting, muscles straining in protest at the physicality of the position and skin glistening with sweat as they punished themselves and each other, teetering on the edge of completion but determined to make it last longer.

"Bruce," Selina demanded, as her hips bucked against his, trying to get him even deeper. "Bruce, _more_." She craved the delicious, thin edge of pain that he always seemed to deliver so precisely, tempering the pull of pleasure into something darker, deeper, something that could drown her. Their gazes met in the mirror, gravitating towards each other with unconscious inevitability.

He understood without asking, and couldn't help but give her what she wanted, pinning both her arms to her sides as he tightened his own around her, holding Selina close to him and stilling her straining movements. She clenched around him, hard, his name on her lips, as he thrust into her body forcefully, allowing her no leeway to move or respond, simply taking of her again and again with increasing violence.

Selina was cursing now, caught between the instinct to struggle and the desire to take it, take it all, to satisfy the insatiable craving that clawed at her flesh and demanded raw, visceral submission. The glass mirrored back the high color in her cheeks and her open mouth, shaping words both wanton and vicious, as her body shuddered under his assault. She wanted, in that moment, to surrender, to his body and his pain and his perfect fucking smile, shaping the beautiful contour of his mouth as he watched her ruin.

"Selina," she heard in her ear. "Selina, what do you want?" Merciless fingers guided her face so that she had no choice but to gaze at their mirrored images, the composition and angle of their tangled, shifting bodies.

"Damn you," she said on a harsh breath, straining for more, always more. "Damn you, Bruce, you know what I want." The fingers against her jaw tightened for a moment, forcing her to see the way her body spasmed under his touch, igniting like tinder to a flame, impossibly arousing and shameful all at once.

"Take what you want then," he said, low and hot. "Come for me, Selina." His eyes bore into hers as his free hand reached between her legs, cajoling and commanding and coaxing her to the edge of the precipice, daring her to throw herself over the edge and into the free falling darkness. He lowered his head slightly to lay burning kisses against her shoulder, all the while keeping the pace of their pleasure unforgiving and frenetic, until Selina was hanging on by the barest of threads. Then she felt the edge of his teeth sinking into her soft flesh as he moved deeply into her, deeper than ever, causing her limbs to go hot and heavy with electric pain until it was all too much, every nerve overloading with pure sensation, and she cried out wordlessly in release.

She writhed against him for a long moment, and he indulged in the decadence of watching her in the glass, greedy for her pleasure and her pain and everything else that she was, in those raw few seconds when all she could be was Selina, only Selina, bared to his eyes and his touch.

And then she gasped his name, softly, instinctively, her body clenching one last time on his, and Bruce was lost.

* * *

It happened suddenly.

Selina had been through too much not to instinctively roll out of the way when he came at her, eyes wild with rage and teeth bared in a snarl. She had startled out of sleep at the sound of splintering wood, and a few seconds later she was feeling the rush of air as his fist missed her face and hit her pillow instead. She immediately vaulted off the bed, bare feet steady and solid on the floor even as her heart pounded double time in her ears and her mind raced even faster.

The room was very dark, illuminated only by the barest sliver of moonlight, but her eyes adjusted fast, and she ducked the backhand Bruce sent her way with ease, swallowing down a lurid curse. She maneuvered around the bed, noticing his sloppy, illogical movements as he lunged for her, so different from the calculated precision she had seen from him time and time again.

It was Bruce, but it wasn't _Bruce_.

That was all she needed to know before she slammed a knee deep into his gut and followed up with a punch to his jaw, sending his head back at a painful angle. She nimbly danced away, avoiding his body as it crumpled to the floor with a heavy thud. He stayed down for a long moment, and she almost went to him against her better judgment. While she was deliberating, though, he slowly raised his head and turned slightly to stare at her, eyes blinking rapidly and mouth turned down in a frown of blatant confusion.

"Selina?" he asked, voice hoarse with sleep. "Did you just hit me?"

* * *

_To be continued…_

* * *

**Author's Notes:** Firstly, I am so sorry it took me longer than usual to update. Real life intruded quite rudely and I had to write this chapter in bits and pieces and try to weave it all together into something cohesive at the last minute. I am, to be honest, really, really apprehensive about posting this, as this is fairly new territory where this story is concerned. So far, it's mostly been about banter and fun times, but I've been meaning to take it in a different direction (as some of you have noted in reviews from the hints I've dropped here and there). Please let me know what you guys think—I could really use some constructive feedback about this chapter in particular.

This time round, my Tumblr (**rusty-halos dot tumblr dot com**) contains relatively little, just pictures of Bruce's oft-mentioned eye-crinkle smile (which didn't make an appearance this chapter, damn it) and the beautiful little hotel Bat/Cat are camped out in. Credit to Elissa Alejandra for prompting me to find pics of Christian Bale smiling (which, incidentally, sent my fangirl heart aflutter).

Until next time! :)

P.S. This story is now officially rated M, as I noted earlier. I know some of you have said that you liked the relative chasteness of it, but I never intended to keep it…er…kid-friendly. My apologies to those that are disappointed, and I hope you can still enjoy the fic despite the changes.


	7. Terra Pericolosa

**Between the Shadow and the Soul**

Disclaimer: Don't own anything – Rating: M – Warnings: Strong language, carnality

* * *

_I do not love you as if you were a salt rose, or topaz_

_Or the arrow of carnations the fire shoots off._

_I love you as certain dark things are to be loved,_

_In secret, between the shadow and the soul._

"Love Sonnet XVII," Neruda

* * *

**07. Terra Pericolosa**

* * *

"I damned well knew it," Selina muttered, pacing back and forth in front of the wide windows that overlooked the darkened Grand Canal. "I knew it before we even got here."

"What?" Bruce asked wearily, sitting on the bed with his head buried in his hands.

"I knew you weren't sleeping, and I knew there had to be a reason," she said, pausing to turn and face him.

"Selina," he said, looking up at her faint silhouette against the moonlight. "If I'd known this was going to happen, I never would have—,"

"I know," she said, voice slipping lower. "I didn't mean that. I know you wouldn't have...allowed for these circumstances. What I meant was that you aren't as separated from Gotham as you present yourself to be. Isn't that the truth?"

He merely gazed at her, eyes steady and mouth hard.

"Isn't that the truth," she repeated, and it wasn't a question this time. "What happens when you fall asleep, Bruce?"

It surprised her how much strength it took to ask such a question of him, a question that chafed at her skin and wandered dangerously close to forbidden territory.

He was silent for a long moment, and she could see in the tension of his shoulders his desire to simply deflect or ignore. When he spoke the truth instead, Selina could feel something hot and horrifyingly sentimental roil in her gut.

"When I fall asleep, sometimes, I see things." The words were stilted, but clear.

She didn't need to ask about what he saw—she was no stranger to things that went thump in the night, and Bruce Wayne had seen enough, felt enough, to fuel years' worth of bad dreams. Instead, she approached cautiously, bare feet soundless on the carpeted floors. His entire body locked down as she came ever closer, dark eyes watchful and guarded when they swept over her expression.

"Selina," he said, quietly. "What happened to your survival instinct?" It wasn't so much a warning to her as it was a hint of the self-loathing painted so luridly on his features.

"It's still there," she replied. "You're just not triggering it. You underestimate me, Wayne. I give as good as I get, and I'm plenty capable of knocking you on your ass. Not that that will be necessary, seeing as you're conscious." She was standing barely three inches in front of him now, looking down at his upturned face. "What I want to know, Bruce, is why you look so guilty."

The shock that shot across his face for the briefest second was so gratifying it might have made Selina smile in a different circumstance.

"Well, I just attacked you," he said without missing a beat. "I don't feel good about that." He wasn't lying, exactly, but he also wasn't telling the truth.

"Careful, Bruce, your pants might catch fire," she said. "You and I both know you weren't fully in control. You're much too logical to feel so much guilt about something you couldn't have anticipated happening, couldn't stop yourself from doing."

There it was, the slight tensing in his jaw and the flicker of his eyes towards hers. It was the only acknowledgment she got that she was getting warmer.

"No," she continued slowly, testing the waters. "You…you knew _something_."

"If I thought I'd be a danger to you, I never would have—,"

"You don't have to tell me that," Selina snapped, temper getting the best of her for a second. "We all get it, you're big fucking hero and much too noble to ever put me in the path of blah blah blah, but you didn't answer me, Wayne."

His eyes narrowed almost imperceptibly at the sudden anger in her tone, and she glared back, feeling rather self-righteous. Selina figured that was her due if he was keeping information from her that ended up compromising her physical safety.

"I haven't slept well for a long time," he finally said. "Not since I left Gotham. I don't know if I can't sleep because I see things, or if I can't sleep because I don't _want_ to see things."

"It's been months since you left Gotham."

"I'm aware."

"And I assume the Batman doesn't see shrinks?" Her voice was quiet now.

"No. But I've done the research. It's common in people with…posttraumatic stress disorder."

"PTSD?" Selina said, trying to remember anything she'd read about it. "Have you ever…"

"No," Bruce said. "It didn't start until it was all over, until Gotham was behind me for good."

"And you think that the sleep deprivation caused you to attack me tonight? That's why you look so guilty—you think that you should have known something would crack eventually?"

"Perhaps. I…I slept tonight, Selina, really slept, for the first time in weeks. Then I woke up for a few seconds and closed my eyes again, but this time, I wasn't in a hotel room in Venice with you."

"Where were you, Bruce?" she asked, reaching out with the tips of her fingers to touch the stark shadows beneath his cheekbones.

She could feel his muscles tightening in response to her words, his expression twisting for a quick moment. "Somewhere else," he said, sounding exhausted. "Somewhere violent."

"But we've shared a bed before, and this hasn't happened," she said, half to herself.

And then she realized something. "You haven't slept at all these last few days, have you? Ever since you showed up at my doorstep in Paris—what the hell? How are you still functioning?" Incredulity crept into her tone.

"Practice," he said, with a mirthless chuckle. "I rest, but I don't sleep."

"You don't trust yourself to sleep around me?" she asked, and despite herself, something icy cold clenched in her gut, and the survival instinct she'd dismissed so cavalierly reared its ugly head.

"I…I didn't know how I'd react to having someone in such close proximity to me during the night. But you managed to tire me out," he said, with a quick quirk of his lips that was more grimace than smile. "I fell asleep without thinking about it." There was a brittle undercurrent to his tone, as if his lack of control caused him physical pain.

"But you couldn't have gone on not sleeping the entire time we're supposed to be in Venice," she said, mind racing. "What…"

"There are two hotel rooms," he replied. "This one is yours. I was going to go back to mines, but I got…distracted."

"Christ, Bruce, so you were never going to tell me at all?" Selina burst out, caught between exasperation and unnerving disappointment and not quite quick enough at hiding it. "Did you think I was, what, too fragile for the truth?"

"Not at all," he said, voice chilling considerably. "But neither of us are very forthcoming people, Selina."

"No," she said, bringing her hand away from his face and back to her side. "We're not."

He sighed, and stood up from the bed, causing her to instinctively step back in order to maintain the distance between their bodies. Once she realized what she'd done, she cursed herself for not standing her ground. She wasn't the sort who scared easy, Batman or no. At the same time, resignation flickered across Bruce's features, recognizing the automatic movement of her body for what it was—wariness. On a basic, primal level, Selina no longer trusted him enough to let her guard down in his presence, even in a purely physical context.

"Our bodies never lie," he said, quietly. "Do they, Selina? It's our minds that get the signals all mixed up. My mind told my body it had to fight when you were sleeping next to me, and just now, your mind told your body there was nothing to be afraid of. But your body knew better."

"Stop reading into it, Bruce," Selina said, trying to keep the anger out of her voice. "I'm not afraid of you."

"You told me once, in so many words, that you were a survivor," Bruce said. "You _are_ afraid of me. As you should be."

"_You_ told me once that there was more to me than that," she fairly spat, losing the last shred of control she had on her temper. "Have you changed your mind?"

For the second time that night, she had managed to surprise him. He reached out to touch her, but she took a deliberate step back, mocking him.

"Well?" she demanded, brows drawn together and spine rigid. "Have you?"

"No," he said between clenched teeth, infuriated despite himself, infuriated _at_ himself. He felt like he was piloting an aircraft that was steadily, helplessly losing altitude by the second. There was nothing worse than that feeling of spiraling out of control, especially when there was nothing he could physically do to correct it. But the best defense while he regained equilibrium would be an offense. "I haven't changed my mind. But why are you so interested in what I think about you? You've made it quite clear that you're not the repentant sort and you won't have me saying anything about it."

"About _what_, Wayne?" Selina said, dropping her voice into a hiss, determined to reign her emotions back in. Emotions were not the sort of thing she let roam freely in any circumstance, and particularly not when he could so easily take advantage of them.

"About your past, Selina," he said heavily, almost reluctantly.

"Snooping around my old juvie records doesn't tell you shit about my _past_," Selina said, saying the last word as if it left a bad taste in her mouth. "You're right, though. I'm certainly no saint. But you don't have to be Batman to know that. What is this really about?"

"If snooping doesn't tell me about your past, maybe you ought to fill in the gaps," Bruce said, crossing his arms.

"_Oh_," Selina said. "Oh. You can't give it up, can you? You have to know everything, study everything. So you can what—neutralize me? You've got balls, asking me to fill in the gaps, when you can barely stand to tell me two serious truths in a row."

"It's not about giving it up," Bruce said, fingers digging into the muscles of his biceps. "That's who I am. I am just as much Batman as I am Bruce Wayne."

"Well, since you're stuck as Bruce Wayne now, maybe it's time you learned to see things differently," Selina said, leaning into his personal space so that he wouldn't be able to look away from her face. "When there's no mask and no cape, when you're not playing at a crusade, you cannot take freely without giving something in return. The hardest people to steal from are thieves, Bruce. Thieves are paranoid and clever and mean. And I'm the best there is. You won't be able to take from me so freely."

"I've told you plenty tonight," he said, holding her gaze. "I've allowed you to pry it out of me."

"Because you tried to take my head off," she said. "Don't forget that fun fact. You only said anything because you felt guilty." She could see the strain that pulled his mouth taut, recognized the same strain in herself.

"Selina," he said, "This is going nowhere."

"In more ways than one," she said, the words rolling off her tongue too quickly. But as with many things thoughtlessly said, they had the ring of truth.

"Do you really think that?" he asked, scrutinizing her features.

"Don't do that," she breathed, tired all of a sudden. "Don't try to read subtext and context and metatext in every muscle spasm in my face. I'll answer honestly—I really think this is all going nowhere."

"And that makes you unhappy," he observed.

She flicked a glance at him, guarded but tinged with something akin to regret, or maybe the beginnings of pain.

There was a pause that seemed to stretch for hours, in the aftermath of their barbed words and loaded expressions.

"When I was eight, my parents were murdered by a man named Chill, right in front of me," Bruce said suddenly, angling his head to meet her eyes. "You probably knew that, but I've never been the one to tell you."

She pursed her lips, recognizing his words for what they were—an attempt to avoid causing her unhappiness. And maybe avoid causing his, as well. It was an attempt to save them both.

Selina, hardhearted though she might be, could give him no less than what his effort deserved. "The night before my tenth birthday, my dad beat my mom senseless with an andiron then drank himself to death," she said, deliberately keeping her tone as mild as possible.

She accepted without comment the arm he wrapped around her shoulders, bringing her ear to rest just above the steady thudding of his pulse. Their embrace was brief, quiet, without impassioned assurances or melodrama, each uncomfortable with the poignancy of the moment but sincere in their sentiment.

"I'm sorry I tried to hurt you, Selina," he said, gruffly, as they stepped apart. "I haven't said it yet."

"I'm sorry I flinched," she replied, knowing it had to be said, though the truthful words weighed heavy on her heart and spread doubts like poison through her blood. "I'm truly not afraid of you."

"I believe you believe that," Bruce said, smiling at her with his lips and giving her a bleak look with his eyes. She suppressed a frown, but let it go. She'd deal with his conception of her abilities another time, when the moon outside didn't look about ready to cede its stage to dawn.

He'd noticed the time, too. "I'm going to get the keys for my room, alright?" he said, picking up his discarded shirt from an armchair in the corner and buttoning it up. "I'll see you later today."

She didn't protest, silently walking with him to the door of the suite. As he stepped over the threshold, he turned back to face her for a moment. "Sleep well, Selina," he said quietly.

"Sleep well, Bruce," she replied, waiting until he had disappeared down the hall and around the corner before shutting her door and sinking down onto the deserted bed.

Fighting with Bruce had left her drained, like she'd just fought off twenty assailants and couldn't find a safe spot to catch her breath. Selina eased herself down on the bed, trying not to look at the heavy gilt mirror that reflected her face back at her unmercifully. She stared at the darkness of the sky outside her window, waiting for dawn to break, knowing that it was unlikely she'd get any more rest tonight.

Minutes stretched into hours, and then the golden rays of the sun were invading the velvety dark picture her window made, stretching like spindly fingers into the rich tapestry of the night. It was all a bit like Pandora's box, Selina thought.

What had come out tonight could never be recaptured.

* * *

_To be continued..._

* * *

**Explanatory Notes: **

Terra pericolosa is an Italian phrase for "dangerous land," used in cartography to denote regions that are believed to be likely to put travellers in jeopardy.

Pandora's box, for those who have never read the myth, was a jar that contained all the evils in the world. It was given to Pandora, who opened it out of curiosity, thereby allowing its contents to escape and spread all across the Earth.

**Author's Notes:** Whew. I just speed typed all of this in a little over an hour, so I might be replacing this chapter with an edited version when I have the chance. I consider this more of a rough draft, since I pretty much wrote with my gut and didn't give a damn for beautiful turns of phrase or the like. As always, I'd appreciate any feedback you guys have on characterization, direction, etc. Oftentimes the feedback I get shapes the next chapters I write.

Catwoman's history in the DC 'verse is hopelessly convoluted, so I figured I would give her a backstory cobbled together from different versions of canon, with a few personal touches here and there (sort of like what happened with Batman in the Nolanverse, but in all probability, not nearly as masterful).

The Tumblr (**rusty-halos dot tumblr dot com**) update that comes with this chapter is, by nature, pretty barren, as there aren't a whole lot of visuals; all I've posted are the various incarnations of this fic's "book cover" I've Photoshopped in fits of boredom.

See you guys next update! :) And thanks, as always, to all my anonymous reviewers. If you ever want a response to your comments, just leave me some way of contacting you; there are some pretty interesting ones I wish I could answer.


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